


From Russia To Love

by GeekishChic



Series: Personal Fanfic Friday Challenge [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Tiny Bit Gay, A Tiny Bit Metaphysical, A Tiny Bit Sweary, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2618462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This week I got </p><p> </p><p>1) Johnlock<br/>2) John is in hospital with appendicitis and Sherlock brings him a stuffy with his voice<br/>3 Cheese on toast</p><p>Sorry so rushed but... life...</p>
    </blockquote>





	From Russia To Love

**Author's Note:**

> This week I got 
> 
>  
> 
> 1) Johnlock  
> 2) John is in hospital with appendicitis and Sherlock brings him a stuffy with his voice  
> 3 Cheese on toast
> 
> Sorry so rushed but... life...

 

Feeling a bit under the whether was never one to slow John H. Watson. MD, former Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, veteran of several major battles and three continents of Strange(and not so strange). A Russian Winter wasn't going to stop him from carrying out his mission. This wasn't chasing a poison dart-spitting dwarf around the streets of London. This was Queen and Country and his best mate by his side in the thick of it. Naturally, the adrenaline would be extra high. High enough to cause him to sweat profusely? Well who wouldn't under layers of clothing and a Balaclava as they raced after one of the keys to blowing this wide open? This was some James Bond shit right here and he wasn't about to miss it for a little sniffle.  

 

The "G-Men" had to pull Sherlock off of the suspect who'd felled John with a simple punch to the gut he should have not only been able to dodge, but should have only made him angrier. Which was his exact thought as his world plunged into frigid then warm, pudding-like blackness. Stark white that would have normally hurt his eyes flared from what focused itself into a bright lamp. He was floating above it all, unconcerned at the tableau of his body on the operating table. More curious than anything. Was he really that small? That grey? He'd have to stop teasing Lestrade over the silver of his. If he saw him again, he thought, almost blandly.

 

Interested in where Sherlock may have been at the time, he was suddenly in some sort of waiting area. Sherlock was steadily ranting at a terrified nurse regarding a black plush bear wearing a little black coat and blue scarf. It was adorable, but the main concern was how to get Sherlock to stop shouting at the poor girl who was only doing her job. All he did was speak Sherlock's name in a warning tone and the infuriatingly infuriated man stopped, cocking his head like a curious bird. It was as if he couldn't quite hear him. It did, however, give the nurse time to explain that he could bring the bear into the recovery room. He couldn't actually put it in the sterile operating theatre unless he wanted to compromise John's health. It was as if he heard Sherlock's thoughts before the tall, lean man finally complied with a nod and handed the bear to Nurse Abrankovich with strict instructions to flip a switch in the back as  _soon_  as it and John were in the same room.

 

John rushed back to... he wasn't sure where but, as opposed to the conversation between the nurse and Sherlock, this place was heavy and more than a little incoherent. Dreaming, then. It was a strange thing, the mind whilst unconscious. He heard Sherlock's voice, recognizing it anywhere, though it was a bit off for a little while. The impressions were the best thing about all of it, however. John knew Sherlock could disguise himself, but this was a new level of it all. He was actually sitting beside Sherlock out in front of a verdant hill, fit with a circular door that led into it, a grumpy, short being(" _shorter and grumpier than even you, John")_ with giant, hairy, bare feet and a mop of honey waves twice as long and lazy as Sherlock's black ones opening the door to an imposing wizard in all grey. He'd a pointy hat and everything.

 

The first several chapters were in Sherlock's sort of peculiar tone, the one that wasn't quite right. The next few sounded just perfect, John finally having to open his eyes and watch the kaleidoscope that was Sherlock's face as it transformed with each character. The room was bright, and the oddest scene was displayed through the slits which were the only things he was able to manage at first. A gaggle of children, much quieter than he'd ever seen in his life, surrounded the bed, listening raptly to the rather haggard but beautiful(?)Englishman, changing himself so completely with each piece of dialogue.

 

Then came the dragon. 

 

Sherlock's natural voice had always possessed a tone akin to the purr of a giant cat that had consumed too much caffeine, deep and rich and rapid. But  _this_... it was as if he had extra respiratory chambers, the way it sort of... split, was the only word he could think of. It divided itself into layers, all of which seemed a different pitch, though it was impossible, drawn out as if the world awaited everything a dragon had to say. Which was the absolute truth. The children leaned forward slightly after he began speaking as Smaug.

 

"Well..., thief! I... smell... you..." John's heart rate sped up more than usual, according to the monitor and Sherlock halted, their eyes finding each other and locking immediately. "John!" he declared in his normal voice.

 

"Don... don stp..."

 

"Don't try to speak." He then gave the children instructions in... where were they again? Sounded like Russian. They scattered, like roaches, quickly and still eerily quiet, a nurse replacing them as, John assumed, the doctor was fetched. An interminable exam made easier by being able to exchange looks with Sherlock, they were finally left alone. Sherlock raised his top half, wincing with him, then held a straw to his parched lips.

 

"Children?" That was clearer, but his tongue still felt like a lead weight in his mouth.

 

"One heard the bear and brought others. The only way they were allowed to stay was on the condition that they be absolutely silent, except for the ones that were translating in a whisper." John smiled at him idiotically. "What?"

 

"S'cute."

 

"It is most certainly  _not_  cute. It was a means to an end. Nothing more."

 

"'Kay," John conceded sarcastically. Well it was so in his head. "Wha... wha hap-"

 

"Your appendix burst. It... they weren't sure if they were going to get to it in time." Sherlock's voice was practiced, even. But those remarkable eyes told an entirely different story. "You should have said if you were that ill, John!" He scolded, looking away but not removing the hand he'd placed over John's left, pale and long over shorter and a bit more golden. He may not have been aware he'd done it and John wasn't about to forgo the rather surprising amount of comfort it gave.

 

"S'fine," he tried.

 

"It isn't fine!" Sherlock was nearly hysterical, bolting out of his chair in order to pace and John could only frown to show his concern with this. "You nearly..." He looked back at him then sighed and took his seat once more, replacing his hand as if holding hands was something they normally did. John couldn't be arsed to care, though. "I should have seen. I missed-"

 

"Bear?" Sherlock was immediately quiet enough to hear anything John had to say, as predicted and got adorably(?)fidgety at this query, looking around the room and bouncing a knobby knee. John knew his long toes were tapping in his expensive shoes as well.

 

"You weren't coherent a lot of the time. You spoke of my voice quite a bit and would calm significantly when I spoke to you, told you of cases and such. There was a day in which I had to go and wait in a strange flat order to tie up loose ends. During that time I purchased the bear and recorded it. You were in surgery again by the time I could get back to you and for some reason you kept talking about wanting cheese on toast-"

 

"Extremely rude," John tried to scold him. "Poor Nurse Abrnk... brank... Abrankovich." The attempt at pronunciation made him giggle a bit, nonsense that halted when pain flared in his abdomen. Well. Another scar to add to the collection.

 

"What?"

 

"Nurse Abrankovich," he repeated, pleased he was getting the hang of it this time. "She's actually clever."

 

"I didn't know you know how to speak Russian."

 

"I don't. You were... speaking English." 

 

"The only time I spoke English before you awoke was reading The Hobbit. We're in a Russian hospital, John, and I speak the language. Why on Earth would I be speaking English? Besides, during that moronic conversation you were... in surgery so there was no possible way you could have heard."

 

"But... I understood. You must have done, outside the operating theatre." 

 

"The waiting area is nearly a day's ride from the operating theatre," Sherlock said dramatically. They stared at each other for another moment in slight disbelief before beginning to chuckle. 

 

"Don't make me laugh," John snickered. "Mmph. Hurts."

 

"Sorry." Sherlock's eyes softened and John was completely lost. He had no idea what was happening, only that it was good and right and needed to be sussed out, explored further. Like his forehead, high and pale and surprisingly very lightly freckled when one was close enough. But hidden beneath the swirls of black fringe was a patch up job. If he wasn't so light, it would have blended better. "John I..."

 

"I know, Sherlock." John turned his hand into Sherlock's to hold it properly and they sat there for long moments, not exactly avoiding each other's gaze, but not looking at one another nevertheless. A timid knock pulled their attention toward the door. Sherlock rose and, looked down upon the small child at full looming capacity. John saw little arms reach up toward his best friend, something on a paper towel. There was a brief exchange in their native language, then another set of arms offering up a cup with a lid and another short conversation before Sherlock reached deep into his pocket with one hand and extracted a sack of lollies. The children snatched their payment and scampered away, giggling and talking very quickly. 

 

"Don't look at me like that," Sherlock Sherlock commanded with a warning squint as he shut the door and brought over what he had. He brought over the little table attached to the bed with a hinged arm, holding whatever he payed dearly for behind his back so it couldn't be seen. The cup contained earl gray tea, exactly how John liked it and at the perfect temperature. The smell overpowered the other thing, but his eyes widened exponentially at the sight of it. There on the napkin lay two slices of toast, cheese deliciously melting over the edges. The smile they exchanged was electric, Sherlock breaking off pieces and popping them into John's mouth, taking one for himself for every three bites he fed John, helping John sip his tea.

 

And John, notorious for being the caregiver, let him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about last week. Without getting too far into it, my life is a horrible mess. But I had to do something this week and am still working on last week's.


End file.
